


this isn't love

by swallowedsong (bookstvnerdlove)



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M, bailbondsperson!emma, hooker!hook, paying for sex never felt so good
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-15
Updated: 2017-02-15
Packaged: 2018-09-24 17:10:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9773813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookstvnerdlove/pseuds/swallowedsong
Summary: when Emma finds herself caught in the middle of corrupt small town politics, she finds a partner in an unlikely source.his name is Jimmy. or Ian or really, it’s whatever you want him to be. she prefers not to call him anything when she comes (and she always does) until the day that everything changes.





	

**Author's Note:**

> not to be confused with a previous version of the story under the same name. this version has been edited to tell a slightly different story in a complete au setting.

****Waking with her eyelids practically fused to her eyes, Emma's body stirs and she begins to catalogue her surroundings. She’s clearly been sleeping someplace uncomfortable, though her memory is slow to filter through the brain fog. Her lower back aches and her legs muscles feel stiff with misuse. She gives a few experimental blinks before her eyes fully open. When they do, the bright florescent lights of the sheriff’s station greet her. Groaning, she rises from the thin cot as other begin to make their presence known to her, the smell of coffee burning on the pot and the shuffling of paperwork from the other side of the bars.

There’s another person in the cell next to her whistling a jaunty tune that sounds something like one might hear in a pirate movie. The kind of movies that one of her foster mothers used to watch late at night while Emma would sit at the top of the stairs and watch the movies through the lattices, peeling the chipped white paint of the rail while she dreamed of the ability to run away to sea and have adventures.

The whistling stops and then she hears an accented voice with a thread of annoyance announce, “Oi, mate, you can’t keep me here much longer.”

As her eyes adjust to the light, Emma peers through the bars between the two cells. Her companion behind bars is in much the same position as her, shifting up from lying on the city-issued cot, hand rubbing his eyes, running fingers through his hair, until it’s sticking up, artfully tousled.

Emma’s been fairly quiet in her own ministrations, running fingers through her hair and wiping at the mascara and eyeliner caked under her lashes. She’s certain she doesn’t look quite as delightfully mussed as the man in the other cell, and just as she forgoes all pretense of modesty to reach under her sweater and camisole and adjust her bra that’s been digging into her sides, her companion chooses that moment to glance over to her cell and wink at her through dark-lined eyes, with his bright blue eyes.

She can hear the sigh of the sheriff and the shuffle of his boots as he makes his way over to the cell. He glances at Emma and gives her a small nod of acknowledgement before turning his attention to the other man. Keys in hand, the sheriff – Graham, Emma recalls from her meeting with him previous evening – unlocks the door and swings the iron bars open.

“Come on, Jimmy,” his tone establishing what Emma assumes to be a common pattern. “Let’s try not to see you for another month or so.”

As she watches the interaction carefully – always filing away information that might be useful for later, cataloging names and faces and relationships is a stock of her trade – Emma notices the way the man, _Jimmy,_ stiffens at the sheriff’s casual use of the name.

“You know, mate, you could save yourself the trouble with these trumped up charges,” Jimmy says as he looks over in her direction again, sending her another wink.

“We both know I can’t do that, Jimmy.”

“Nobody’s called me Jimmy since grade school, mate.”

The way the man stands, his body sliding into a walk that can only be described as slinky, Emma considers which of the many avenues of slightly-less-than-legal activities he must partake in. (And let’s face it, she thinks, she’s been party to most of them.)

“I know.” Pause. “Here are your things, then. Cigarettes, wallet, and one thousand in cash.”

_Bookie or hooker?_

“Now, about you,” Graham says as he makes his way over to her cell. He’s carrying a a clear bag with two items, car keys and a thin, white envelope, received in the mail days before she took on this case. With the name of a Phoenix, Arizona adoption agency in the left hand corner.

Emma grips the bars of her cell as he continues, already rolling her eyes at what she knows is coming. “Destruction of city property may not not be the most glamorous of crimes, but we’re a proud little town.”

She wants to flirt her way out of this predicament, but there’s something about Graham’s eyes that stops her. Instead, motions to the cell door, “You and I both know that you have no reason to hold me. Write me a citation and we both know I wasn’t drunk.”

“Perhaps not, but you aren’t merely passing through and I find myself curious what brought you here.”

“Antiquing,” she quips, even though they both know she’s lying.

His sigh as he unlocks the cell door echoes loudly throughout the room.

* * *

When she gets to her room at Granny’s Inn, she leaves the letter in the plastic bag.

Less temptation that way.

* * *

The next time Emma notices the man from the station she’s been in town for a few days, and is armed with very few leads for her investigation along with two powerful new enemies in town. When she’d met with a nervous, twitchy August down in Boston, she hadn’t realized just how complicated the politics in his small town would be. Drawn in by the promises of cash, she didn’t stop to wonder exactly _why_ he was willing to pay so much.

Sleeping in her car is nothing new, not that local kindergarten teacher and do-gooder Mary Margaret understands this fact. Kicked out of the inn ( _“I’m sorry, hon. When Cora Mills threatens my business license, I have to listen.”_ ) and found sleeping in her car by the woman, there’s an expression on her pixie face that Emma had seen too many times before, on social workers and teachers and strangers on the bus, before she dropped out of school and snuck away from the system.

Even Emma, queen of self-denial, can admit to herself that it’s with decreasing vehemence that she avoids the woman after a particularly windy and rainy night in town. With all other avenues in this town washing their hands of her, the investigation that brought her to this sleepy town forcing her to run afoul of both the Mayor and the mysterious Mr. Gold. Emma knows when her back is about to hit a wall. But the inevitable - hurdling at her at such rapid speed - is always disconcerting.

Tonight she tugs her short leather jacket closely around her body as she picks the lock to the laundromat, protection from a sharp, cold wind that whips through the air. The chill that runs through her body only partially caused by the weather.

“Chilly, love?”

A voice jumps out at her from the alley.

She shrugs as she peers into the half-light where he stands, taking in his dark attire, the black leather jacket fully zipped, the pants that clung to his frame like second skin, the glint of his earring shining through the darkness.

“It’s cold, I guess,” she answers him for no other reason than to not be so rude as to ignore his opening. But she’s also willing to play this out because – if there’s anything she’s learned over the years – it’s petty criminals who have the best inside line on all the goings-on in small towns like these. And she’ll take any leverage for her investigation that she can get.

He steps fully into the light as she pauses in her gait and leans against the crumbling brick wall. “I’m Ian,” he offers with a quick swipe of his tongue across his lips.

He’s eying her – up and down her body they travel – blue eyes bright and curious. It makes her uncomfortable, his careful and obvious perusal of her body, as if it’s all she has to offer the world. In a flash, she wants to make him feel just as uncomfortable as her. Emma cocks her head to one side as she recalls something that passed between him and Graham at the sheriff’s station the other morning.

“I thought it was Jimmy?”

She expects minor embarrassment from him, but instead she gets nothing – no flush in his cheeks other than from the wind, no sheepish grin, no flinch of reaction at all – except a shrug of his left shoulder and, “Graham’s been calling me that for some time now, but I’m a man of many names, love.”

There’s something about the way he says it that she feels the answer to her earlier question, the one that she had posed to herself back at the station that first morning. _Definitely hooker._

“Well Ian or Jimmy or whoever, you seem like a man who knows things. How can I reach you if I need some information?”

That question _does_ shake him with just a flinch of eyebrow and a furrowing line appearing between his eyes. It doesn’t last long, though, as his face is quick to recover its initial leer. He shifts his body towards hers, leaning against the same wall as her and inching closer and _closer_ until she can feel the warm puff of breath as he answers her.

“I don’t trade in words, darling. You’ll have to find somebody else to do your dirty work.”

He pushes away from the wall with a hitch of his hips and he’s down the street before she realizes that he’s slipped a piece of paper into her jacket pocket. There’s a number printed in neat, slanted handwriting.

With a sigh, Emma rouses herself and continues working the door until the lock clicks, trying to ignore the strange sense of _knowing_ that she gets in her gut when she hears his dark, smooth voice.

* * *

It’s not until the next day that she lets herself think about the slip of paper that remains folded in her jacket pocket. And it happens just as the sound of a siren startles her just as she’s about the step into the intersection and the sheriff exits the car. The two men, forever linked in her memories, seeking her out mere hours apart. And though Graham’s grin doesn’t give her that same burn in her gut that Jimmy or Ian or whoever’s voice does, it does hold enough warmth to make her pause, “What’s with the siren?”

Shaking his head, he blocks her path to the other side of the street and whispers, “You’ve made some powerful enemies in town. I’d like to know why.”

“My client didn’t trust your department, otherwise they wouldn’t have sought me out.”

He flinches and Emma pauses, hoping the temper the harshness of truth with… something.

“I know you’d rather see my tail end as I leave town, but I’m here until I find what I’m paid for.”

Graham looks her up and down, taking in the set of her shoulders and the tightness of her mouth, and sighs.

“I’ll do what I can, but my hands are tied.”

“I know,” she nods as he slides back into his squad car and, tires squealing, speeds away.

She slips her hand into her pocket and, rubbing at the paper, considers her options.

* * *

Emma slides into a stool at the counter of Granny’s and orders a whiskey neat under Ruby’s sympathetic gaze.

Normally she doesn’t mind the other woman’s perceptive eyes and warm smiles. Normally those things make her feel as though she has a friend, one who, combined with Mary Margaret, signifies some sort of shift in her life, a change in her usual patterns. Today, however, all it makes her feel is like she’s on display, openly defiant of those in town who’d forcibly remove her if they could.

When instead, all she wants to do is hide.

(The letter is still wrapped in plastic and taunting from it’s presence in her bag.)

“What?” She asks, probably too harshly but Ruby takes it in stride. Emma’s come to realize that not much flaps the unflappable Ruby, except for her grandmother.

Secretly Emma wishes that _she_ had a grandmother, even if it meant the kind of verbal lashings that both women unleash. Emma chalks it up to strong personalities and a lot of love. Ruby merely arches a brow at her and Emma knows that by now the entire town has heard about her fight with Graham.

The arch of Ruby’s brow says more than words might.

“It’s nothing, Ruby,” she mutters with what she knows is an obstinate set to her mouth. she can feel the way her lips form tightly over the words. She doesn’t mean them and the other woman knows it.

Even if she knows it, Ruby merely shrugs and says, “If you say so,” with a skeptical voice, but she’s coming to know Emma well. When to push, when to let things be.

She drops it, but the silence doesn’t last long as another voice butts into the conversation. A heavily accented voice, throaty and scratched from the cigarette that she saw him pulling on outside the diner moments ago when she stormed in through the door, the bell tinkling behind her.

“And what is it that you say, love?”

Emma swivels in her stool and eyes Ian (or Jimmy or whoever) – with his black leather pants and black leather jacket – returning his favor from a few days ago and allowing her eyes to scan him up and down. He returns her stare with no shame as she merely shrugs and replies, “None of your concern.”

“You could make it my concern,” he quips with the arch of a brow and she wonders if that is his default expression, the half-leer he makes with the eyes and the brow and the low voice.

Immediately her mind goes to the small slip of paper that she still keeps in her jacket pocket, worn from two days of fingering it, of taking it out and unfolding it, and of refolding in indecision.

“I thought you didn’t trade in information,” she bites as she holds the tumbler between her hands for a moment and then drains its contents.

“Appearances and all that,” and he makes a large sweeping gesture of arms and hands. “Keeps me out of trouble with the law, wouldn’t you agree?” He asks with a grin, as he closes the space between their stools and he flicks at the silver star hanging on its heavy chain between her breasts.

The weight of her fake badge, used earlier today on an unsuspecting business owner in the next town over, is heavy but she likes the way it feels against her skin. Something solid and real, and something that might ground her search for belonging. She brushes his hand away from her and rolls her eyes.

“It keeps you out of jail long-term, at least. I have a feeling you’re always trouble.”

Instead of being put off by her dismissal, he appears delighted at her response. His eyelashes flicker towards her lips and back up to her face in mere seconds, and she feels the pull of that glance, and of the way his teeth worry at his lower lip. As he shifts to leave the diner, he throws a final glance in her direction, “If you’re looking for some trouble, you know where to find me.”

At Ruby’s laugh from behind the counter, Emma’s back stiffens and she glares at him through narrowed eyelids, “Perhaps it’s not a good idea to proposition someone wearing a badge. Just a thought.”

He smiles at her and this time it’s not the same reckless grin as before. His eyes widen and she can see the bright line of his teeth as he throws up his hands in mock-innocence, “I said nothing of an exchange of goods for services, officer.” And then – with a wink towards her and a nod at Ruby – he walks out the door, leaving Emma flustered.

She kicks the the door behind her, on her way out.

* * *

Killian watches the two figures from his usual skulking place.

He watches the way she storms out of the diner and the way that Graham follows the mysterious Emma Swan of the many disguises and lies. Cringing at his grip on her arm as he tries to get her attention, a twist in his stomach she yanks her arm away.  He can’t hear their words yet, but he gets the gist as he moves closer, unnoticed.

People in Storybrooke give him a wide berth, even if they do come to him from time to time for whatever it is that they need. He procures items, substances, he gives advice and shoulders for leaning on, he provides anonymous pleasure if requested. It’s a deceptively simple life. He does what he does and they come when they _need._ At the core of it, that’s all people crave – somebody to know what it is they want before they even know it, and, of course, to give it to them. Sure, he gets paid for sex, but it’s not really the sex they’re paying for.  

He understands that _she_ thinks that he should be embarrassed or even _ashamed_ of his life choices with her newfound shiny soul and her fresh new badge. But he’s seen a darkness in her, one that she likely will never acknowledge (at least to the likes of himself). But he finds that he mostly doesn’t give it a second thought. If, from time to time when he’s staring at his reflection in the mirror, he wonders exactly how he got into this, well, he keeps that to himself. It feels inevitable, for the most part, his lot in life, his role in this town.

And now he can hear her raised voice and her anguished whisper-shout, “Whatever you’re looking to prove by siding against Cora Mills, don’t. You’re going to get yourself killed.” before she leaves and the sheriff sinks the the ground, leaning against the tire of the car, visibly shaken and sweating through his clothes.

It’s then that he makes his presence known with a cough as he steps out of the alley and a quiet, “Humbert.”

The sheriff looks up at him with distracted eyes and groans, “Not now Jimmy.”

It would hurt him, but it’s always been like this. Friends only when Graham can play the white knight, and distant when the power is reversed. It's a long way from the way they used to be, two boys competing to see who could swing the highest. And later, two teens avoiding the rest of the kids at school, smoking under the bleachers. These days, the recollection of shared memories doesn’t satisfy him in the same way that it used to.

All he really knows is that he refuses to let his friend sit in the middle of the street, dazed and delirious. He shifts so that he’s squatting in front of Graham and he slings one of the other man’s arms around his shoulder, lifting them both with his legs. “Come on, buddy,” he says, “Let’s get you home.”

He deposits the sheriff at the front door to his apartment building with nary a _thanks_ crossing Graham’s lips, but he’s determined that it won’t rankle. He waits, as Graham fumbles for his keys, still babbling about tracks in the woods and his heart, only leaving when he hears the click of the lock and Graham’s shower starting.

Next stop, have a word with the beautiful new deputy on behalf of his friend. He’s not entirely certain what he thinks that he will accomplish, but he’s never seen Graham fall apart like that before, and if she is somehow the cause, he’s not lost enough to the darkness that he’ll ignore a friend in need.

Of course, his inner monologue appears to reach a dead end when he makes his way to the schoolteacher’s loft. The pixie haired lass refuses him entry glance, so pointed and challenging, directing him to Emma’s sleeping form on the couch. It is such a quick dismissal, and a royal one at that, that he stammers an apology and he turns on the heel of his boot and trudges back down the stairs. All of this before he realizes that she knew he was there for _Emma._

* * *

 

He tries to ignore her, but she’s everywhere. Skulking down alleys and sifting through old newspapers in the library. She’s asking too many questions and she refuses to the use phone number he’d given her.

And finally, it all comes to a head one night in the woods and he’s helpless to stop Gold and Cora as they standoff against Graham and Emma.

* * *

His only friend’s funeral is a small, dismal affair with the schoolteacher, the waitress and Emma on one side; The mayor and her lackey on the other.  

He stands away from the small group as he watches the ritual performed, the prayer over the hole in the ground and the lowering of the casket. His eyes burn, his throat tightens and he finds it hard to swallow all of the sadness and frustration he feels. There are moments when he thinks that she will turn around, her long blonde curls pinned into a bun, her head shifting slightly, just enough that he knows that _she knows_ he is there.

He fights the urge to stand next to her, to take her hand, to have her touch ease the hollow feeling in his gut. It’s better this way, he won’t be tempted to linger, he won’t be tempted to jump between the two women so at odds with each other, their hostile glances speaking volumes.

There’s something about her, about Emma, that makes him want to help, to set aside his requirements – a flash of green and a bed (or a car or a couch or…well, anything else) – and make her life easier. Even if only by a little bit. It’s an uncomfortable feeling, it sits low in his gut as it rolls around with all the other complications that align with his line of work.

He’d like to think that he’s not at the Mayor’s beck and call (and he isn’t). But he also knows is that picking sides in this town would be unwise.

He’s witnessed the proof of that.

He wants to help, but his fate is sealed the moment that Emma declares she is staying in town, running for sheriff, and will avenge the loss of Graham Humbert.

If there’s one thing that he regrets, with this newfound declaration, it’s the phone number that he wonders if she still carries. He hopes that will never use it.

* * *

Luck never was on his side.

One week later, he opens the door of his apartment and lets Emma inside. After she slides a full envelope across the counter of the bar, she stalks into the open room and surveys the shiny, monochromatic, empty place with a view. He watches her with brow arched as she turns a full circle and her eyes make a thorough assessment of everything that belongs to him in this world. He’d assume it was a cop trait, but he knows how new she is to the badge.

But she’s the sheriff now, a sobering thought, as he pours them two tumblers full of rum that will hopefully burn the concerns away. She’d called him a few days ago, after winning the emergency election. He’d felt a shift that evening, walking by Granny’s, watching the celebration with her friends, a shadow in her eyes even as a smile played across her lips.

“Nobody can know,” she had said when she called, her voice clear and steady through the phone line.

“I’m the soul of discretion, love,” he’d said in reply, masking his trepidation with overconfidence.

And it’s true, nobody can know.  Cora and Gold would make his life misery if they discovered he was befriending the new sheriff and there’s no telling what she’d do to _Emma_ with the information that the newly minted sheriff is spending time with a local lawbreaker such as himself. Cora had already pumped him for information about the other day, complete with a summons to her intimidating office and raised brows meant to make him talk.

Not that he knew anything then, other than the fact that Emma has looking for a reason to stay, or is a reason to go and to take the lad with her? He’s no clue of her motivations and he told the mayor as such.

Of course, as he watches Emma slam her drink, her throat working to swallow the liquid, he also realizes that _befriending_ is quite the overstatement. She’s procured his services for the evening and paid a hefty sum for the pleasure of his company the entire night. And, despite the intrigue apparent in their earlier interactions, there’s a blankness to her eyes that signals that she’s here for the usual thing.

Naked bodies and mindless pleasure and no questions to ask in the morning.

Which he finds himself entirely on board with, having no qualms about the fact that he’s found her, since the day she came to town, equal parts beautiful and dangerous to his continued existence, a combination prime to generate a perverse, frustrated desire that lingers in the air when she is nearby.

So if she’s not here to talk, she’s here to fuck and it’s about time they got to it. He walks over to where she stands and he plucks the empty glass from her hands. As he makes his way back to the kitchen, he winks at her. She follows him to the bar and she slides into one of the high stools. His hands grip the corner of the counter as he leans as close to her as possible, leans until his lips are even with hers and he shifts his eyes to stare at them, watches as her tongue darts out nervously under his gaze.

“We can discuss whatever it is that led you here, darling. Or we can dispense with the pretense. Your choice,” he murmurs and he flicks his eyes up to meet hers, his words send a rush of adrenaline through her body.

She had been jittery before, pacing the hall for a full minute before knocking on his door, but that had been pure nerves. Once she had been swept inside his apartment, once they’d begun this dance, circling around the reason for her visit, she had felt calm.

Clinical.

_Detached._

The way she feels now though, facing this gleam in his eyes and the lick of his lips, is anything but clinical or detached. She had just dared him to make her feel. And feel, she does.  

Her pupils are larger and there’s a slight tinge of pink at her cheeks and he knows that she’s ready for Option B. She’s ready enough that she makes the first move and she closes the distance between their lips.

He’s not prepared for how much he feels as her lips move over his and cling.

When they pull apart Emma bites her lip, hesitating  a moment before she says, “I should have asked if that was against your rules.”

She sounds much more businesslike than her posture lets on and he likes this somewhat off-kilter version of her much more than the shuttered, closed off version who walked through his door. He wants her reeling, and _real_ , not some automaton without feelings. Though he supposes that’s the point of her being here to begin with, that she doesn’t need to funny, romantic, and charming with him. She doesn’t need to pretend to be somebody she’s not. He’s here, she’s here. She can be gruff and sarcastic, and she can avoid emotional attachments with him.

“Make me feel _something_ ,” she demands.  

And so, because that is his specialty after all, he does.

She stands as he circles around the counter and they meet, somewhere in the middle of the living room. He grabs her hand and leads her to the couch, where he proceeds to trace her skin above the waist of her jeans. "Soft," he whispers against her lips as his fingers make quick work of the fastenings.

A soft moan escapes her parted lips as she helps him slide down her pants, so her can divest her of her boots. He hums his appreciation of the lacy bits beneath her jeans, his hands gliding along her skin, along the lace covering her, before he pushes her down and she lands with a soft bounce.

Her skin is soft and her breathing is already heavier as he continues to learn her feel, the places on her body that make her hips squirm and the places that make her eyelashes flutter closed. She allows this slow exploration for a few minutes, him kneeling between her legs, his fingers tracing a path up to breaths and down again, then slipping beneath black lace.

She releases a frustrated groan at the way he dances around her body, bruising near her clit, playing around the soft folds. Her hips press up, her body asking for more, but it's her words that really make him listen.

They come from between teeth, a frustrated plea, "I'm not here for games. I'm here for hard and fast."

He glances up at her face and sees the truth of her request. It's in the set of her shoulders, the growing darkness of her eyes. And though he's been enjoying the slow learning of her body, there's something sharp and appealing about her request.

"Stand up," he commands as he does the same and quickly removes his pants. "Hands on the arm and bend over."

To her credit, she does exactly as he asks, but as is her way, she can't stop the quip from escaping with a lift of her brows, "Am I going to need a safe word?"

"No," he answers. "Just giving you what you want."

Her eyes flare open at that and she does as he asks, while he grabs the condom from his pants pocket. She must have liked something about the past five minutes because when he seeks her out with his his fingers, she's slick and wet with want. She presses back, into his hand and rides his fingers with a moan and he bites his lip while he watches for a minute before readying himself. His other hand travels up her back, bunching in the fabric of her shirt for leverage as he positions his dick and then slams into her. She releases a gasp of air and she leans her head down to rest on the arm of the couch.

And just the same as when she kissed him, he unprepared for how much he feels once he's inside her.

* * *

They go two rounds in the living room before falling into sleep, her body tucked into his, his arm draped haphazardly around her. He's a light sleeper, though, so when she rouses he does as well.

“You paid for the entire night, love. You’re welcome to stay,” he motions to the hallway that leads to his bedroom eyeing her from his position on the couch, the space she had just vacated, jumping awake and springing into motion more quickly than than he’d ever had a woman leave before.

She shakes her head and explains, “Mary Margaret will worry.”

His shoulder lifts as he rolls over in bed to watch her pull her clothes on. Her long legs slide back into their uniform of jeans and boots and she pulls her shirt on, stuffing her bra in her bag. She tosses him a final glance over her shoulder as she leaves.

“I can’t stress enough -”

“Soul of discretion,” he interrupt her with a smile that he hopes is comforting, and he wonders if he’ll see her again.

At which point he realizes that’s exactly what he wants.

* * *

Emma unlocks the station door and tosses her jacket on the desk that used to be hers, sailing past the coat rack without a glance, ignoring the worn leather jacket that has taken up permanent residence there. The jacket that she knows has the collar flipped up, with the red stripe showing. The last time that she had actually touched it, it still smelled like _him._ It somehow felt wrong to place her jacket next to his.  She hadn’t wanted to keep the jacket to begin with, packing it into the box of things she left at Gold’s shop.

After the election, when Gold had brought it by with that all-knowing smirk of his and his cryptic words, she had contemplated returning it once again, but as she lifted it to her face, as she was able to catch that hint of his scent, she knew that there was no way she would be able to push it aside again. Besides, she’d had enough of that man’s meddling for a lifetime and, even though that trick of his had won her the election in the end, it had been exactly what he’d wanted and she hates that her desires had coincided with his. Not to mention, taking the jacket was easier than admitting why she’d given it away to begin with.

There’s stale coffee in the pot that she pours in mug that she’s taken to keeping at the station. It’s bitter and cold, and it does nothing to calm to the jittery nerves that are spreading across her body as she tries to focus on anything but what she’s feeling.

She'd just paid for sex.

For really, _really_ good sex.

But that doesn't erase the fact that she'd just paid for sex. She's asked for fast and rough and she can still feel the slight fabric burn on her hands from where she’d gripped the couch as he’d pulled her hair, holding her in place.

She drops her head to pile of files on her desk, banging her forehead softly against the paper. Willing the images away, willing everything away. Praying to the universe for some kind of clarity.  

She's ready to admit that she made a mistake when she rashly decided to pay for the entire night, even though she cannot go back to the loft, back _home,_ without a barrage of questions, ones she's not ready to face.

She'd told Mary Margaret that she was needed for an overnight at the station, ignoring the other woman's knowing eyes. It's Storybrooke. There's an overnight dispatch and typically no need to actually stay at the station. All night. But she'd left Emma to her lie, which Emma appreciated. Though she wondered if Mary Margaret would have been so considerate of she knew the real reason Emma was avoiding home.

Caring eyes, a sympathetic smile, and the urge to _talk_ about it.

Emma didn't do talk. She didn't know how to respond to the _It’s okay, Emma_ 's and the _You can say his name, Emma_ 's. She didn't know how to respond to Mary Margaret with her healing teas and and her careful suggestions that seemed to cut to the quick of her soul, a direct shot through her she couldn't take it.

But there in the glass-walled office she can try to erase the panic she felt when Graham had collapsed and its matching echo she'd felt tonight, afterwards as they fell into sleep on the couch, his body shielding hers from the cool air in his empty apartment. Shielding her from the pit in her heart where hope used to reside.

It might make no sense to Mary Margaret, so she doesn't explain it, but there's something that comforts her about this space, the desk that was his, this room that was his, this first place where she was offered a chance to change her patterns. As she sits in his chair, now hers, she spins a circle and almost makes it all the way around, when her foot hits something that stops her momentum.

A boot. A pair of boots, in fact.

* * *

 

There's something about the roughness of the shoelace that soothes her those first few days. She can feel it pulling on her skin and she focuses on the slight burn she feels at her wrist. It will fade, one day soon as her wrist becomes accustomed to its presence, and the shoelace will remain as the sole reminder. But today, she likes the pain.

She likes the constant physical ache that reminds her everyday that there's something rotten here in Storybrooke, something _off._

With no actual cases to solve today, she finds herself in need of coffee, coffee good enough to make up for the burned, bitter brew at the station.

Before she leaves, though, she watches until he disappears into the building and her heart squeezes as she hopes that one day, when his fairytale dreams don't come true, that he will not lose everything that makes him special, his enthusiasm, his unwavering belief. He's a smart one, this kid who is not hers and yet a part of her, and so she doesn't want to see him ever broken, not so permanently, not like _her._

Mary Margaret waves to her from the doorway as she ushers the remaining kids into the building to start their day. She feels another pinch around her heart as she holds up her hand in return, a half-wave with a half-smile. She’s been avoiding talk with her roommate, her _friend_ , and now Mary Margaret’s been cagey as well. Leaving early, leaving buttons unfastened on her blouses, the ones that used to fit tight, up against the hollow of her throat with their little collars.

As she dials the number that she's now memorized and leaves a message, she considers that they both have secrets. And maybe Mary Margaret would understand more than Emma had expected.

* * *

She’s taken the letter out of the plastic bag. Sometimes, at night, she holds it, grip wrinkling the paper, wearing down the ink.

She knows what’s in there, and she’s afraid of it.

* * *

It's easier to see him the second time.

She doesn't hesitate at the door before knocking like she did the last time. Her knuckles rap and it open almost immediately. There's a smile at his lips, one that wasn't there last time and she finds it appealing, this lightness that he exudes. She knows it's partly for show, that his job - his actual job, is to create the illusion that she's wanted and he adores her. But she's also seen that other side to him, the taunting, shifty side and she knows that underneath that smile some darkness resides in him. A darkness that she _understands_ but his ability to push it away fascinates her.

He belongs where she does, straddling the line. Though, given where he line is drawn these days, he's still on the other side, bleeding into hers.

When he pulls her towards him, into his apartment, the door shuts behind her and she finds herself immediately pinned to the hard surface. His hips anchor her while his hands frame her body. His eyes do their flicker, those little glances to her lips, her eyes, and back again before they crush against hers. His hands at under her shirt and his fingers pull at her nipples through her bra. The rough contrast on her skin sends a spark through her. A jolt of this is what I need, of mindless fucking round two. He's playing it fast and hard, just as she'd asked for last time, a week ago when he bent her over his couch and fucked her

She had liked it then, and there's a part of her that likes it now. The part that wants to give herself permission to use and be used, to avoid the turmoil that marks the rest of her life. It makes her heart faces as this fingers make quick work of unbuttoning her shirt, of going back to her bra, where he pulls the lace cups down and resumes his teasing of her breasts, pulling at her nipples, feeling the rush of desire spreading.

But something in her shifts when his fingers play at the button of her jeans, tracing the skin of her belly, toying with the fastening until his fingers are slowly pulling the zipper down. Yes, she's wet, a rush of heat building between her legs, but suddenly it feels wrong. Like this time should be _different_ somehow.

She slides her hands, the ones that had been fisted in his hair as his lips continued to taste hers, tongues sliding together, she slides them until they reach his chest and she presses at him, tearing her lips away with a frustrated groan. He immediately pulls back, his hands gently clasping her wrists, his eyes scanning hers, searching for meaning.

"Hey, what's this?"

"I don't..."

Her words trail off as she shrugs, her movement small with his continued grip on her wrists.

It's when she shifts, just barely, that he seems to notice her new adornment and his eyes lock on the makeshift bracelet. She feels a skittering this in her heart as she watches him transfixed on the brown leather, eyes narrowing and his that working, swallowing a great, gulping breath. It feels almost wrong, his attention to this detail, and when his thumb traces the rough leather she snaps and she angrily twists out of his grip and pushes until her body is propelled away from his.

"Don't," she bites out through gritted teeth. And she knows it is harsh, her voice an angry rasp, but there's a twisting inside her belly now that has nothing to do with pleasure unfurling and everything to do with his attention, his violation of their agreement.

_She pays him._

_He fucks her_.

She's not _supposed_ to feel anything for him. He's not _supposed_ to feel anything for her.

Never mind that mere moments ago she had a fleeting flash of desire for something less clinical. Never mind that there was a brief moment where she wondered if fast and hard was not enough, wondered if maybe they deserved more than just an exchange or orgasms. Which, although perfectly pleasant, had moments ago felt cheap.

She's so confused, as his eyes snap to hers as if he's able to read the inner workings of her mind, to read the change in her mood even though she's tired to school her features into a stony blank slate. Part of her wants that, to take the easy way out, to have him read her thoughts and tell her what it is that she's feeling.

Another part of her hates herself for even thinking that.

His eyes flash and that easy smile of his that greeted her at the door, the false smile that she'd wanted to hold onto, that smile disappears into a grimace of pearly white teeth and a tight, jaw-clenching that reminds her of those pirates again, and this time not the charming, swashbuckling type.

He takes several steps back and the tension between them somehow increases with each step, thickening, tightening. He's not trying to be a blank slate like her. No, he wants her to understand that he's all live wire and she's lit a fuse. The trouble is, she doesn't know how long the rope is. Not for either of them. She can't quite grasp how the shoelace could make him filled with such discontent and her with such desire to make him even more so.

"I find myself jealous of your new adornment which, I promise, is a new sensation for me, darling."

He says it like he hates himself, hates her for making him feel this foreign emotion, which only fuels the anger that's been building underneath her skin.

"I'm paying you. I don't think jealously falls within your rights," she counters, her voice full of the warming that she uses with perps that she's cornered. She wants to intimidate him, throw him off course and regain the power that she thought she'd have with this arrangement.

"Oh, and what rights have I?"

His tone is so laced with bitterness that she leans farther away from him, as far against the door as she can, the back of her head banging the heavy wood. She'd wanted to assert her power with that, to regain some clarity among all the jumble in her brain, but she also knows his question is important and she considers him with fresh eyes.

She'd asked him for mindless last week, after he offered her anything that she wished. She'd wanted to think that, because this is his _job,_ that she was in charge. But she'd only demanded _after_ he had offered. Before, she had been waffling, internally. How would she do this? What would she say?

He had taken control of that for her and she doesn't like how vulnerable this knowledge makes her feel, standing in front of him, shirt askew and buttons undone. She doesn't like the edginess this makes her feel, that he can somehow see what she's hiding underneath her armor.

"You have the right to say no. You have the right to tell me if what I want isn't what you want. I may be paying you, but..."

She pauses as she takes a step towards him and considers this mess they've found themselves entangled in. He stands, rigid, in front of her, his eyes hooded now, after being so open to her before. "I think maybe this is meant to be a negotiation."

"Fine, let's negotiate. I'll start. You may call me any name you wish, except one."

She bristles at that, and she's not sure why. She certainly wasn't planning on calling him any name in particular, but that he would think that she could call him by another man’s name, not even one whom she shared more than a fleeting connection of friendship with. As if she could erase his face, and replace it with another’s, his arms, his hips thrusting into her with another, so easily. As if her mind was so malleable that she could pretend such a thing.

She's actually kind of offended at the thought.

* * *

The third time is better.

They don't establish any other rules and before she has a chance to address the shift in the air, his hands are on hers and he’s pulling her down the hallway, torso leading and her legs rushing to follow. She presumes that he’s taking her to his room, the one with the large bed that he’d promised her last time. Despite his earlier anger, he's not forceful as he continues leading her down the hallway,

He has the appearance of an over eager lover as he pushes her to the bed, where she lands with a soft bounce, but she's learning that his surface is just that. She can sometimes read hints of what's brewing underneath, but ever since the moment where he admitted to jealousy over Graham, she's been off-kilter, her so-called superpower sending her signals but no answers. She wants to cut it off completely, to trust the image that he presents to her as he slowly pulls her pants down, as his hands slide off her shirt pushing the fabric off her shoulders, as he watches her with desire written in his features.

She wants to trust that he’s moved past this edgy jealousy, the petty anger over Graham, so she pretends to ignore the way he touches every part of her skin, every part except for her wrists, and soon it turns to ignoring as his fingers brush the swells of her breast, above the lace of her bra. Her legs twist restlessly in the sheets as he pulls at the fabric and his thumb circles her nipple. He glances up at her face, his eyebrow raised, as if daring her to beg for more.

And it makes her angry, these expectation that have somehow taken root between them. Anger that she wants to burn off in a flash of heat, but he has other plans, plans that involve a silky voice asking her, “Lay down. All the way, love.”

When she does, he smiles and says, “That’s a good girl.”

She leans up on her elbows at that, bow arched and he stops. He bites his lip, his teeth making indents on his lower lip as they watch each other for a quiet moment. With a nod he murmurs, “Noted, but I’ll have you know, you can call me a bad boy anytime you want.”

He leans down to nip at her skin, pulled taut at her belly button and the shiver that shoots across her body makes her grasp the sheets with her fingers, fisting the soft fabric. Her hips rise up and he slides his hands around her to grip her ass as he nuzzles against her bare skin. Thumbs hiking underneath the scrap of lace at her hips, he slides them down her legs and when he returns, his hands glide up her legs, slowly, torturing her.

She leans up on her elbows again and glares at him, willing him to understand what she needs. For him to do _something._ Anything.

"Trust me," he says as his eyes meet hers, and there's a wicked gleam in them that he punctuates with a wind before he leans is head back down and licks straight across her.

Her head falls back against the mattress and she lifts her hips, pressing against his mouth.

“Fuck,” she murmurs as his lips shift and he sucks her clit.

He replies, “Not yet,” as he presses light kisses to her inner thighs as his fingers tease her opening.

And then his mouth returns to where it was until she’s fucking his face, hips writhing, until she comes, and it happens so quickly, a flash of pleasure, pulsing between her legs, the soft press of lips as she rides it out.

* * *

He may actually be in over his head, he thinks as he carries two cups of coffee from Granny’s, and slips into the Town Hall through the back basement door. She tries to make the relationship between them as impersonal as possible, leaving his money in an envelope on the counter for him to find after she’s snuck away from his bed. He tries to to help her out, cashing in favors he collected years ago, long before he started selling his body.

Back when all he wanted was to have a small boat and be the master of his own fate.

Still, they form an odd sort of partnership, filled with these late night coffees and the quiet admissions that he wrings from her over the boxes of old files in the basement - of prison time and living in her car, to the letter she keeps tucked away in her bag.

He alternates between hoping she’ll never leave and helping her find purpose.

Unfortunately, Cora and Gold cover their tracks well.

* * *

He wakes her from her post-coital nap, fingers sliding into her from behind and his erection pressed against her back. He should be exhausted and unable to function (and he’s quite sure he’s beyond the ability to come again tonight), but he wants to feel that ache as he sends her over the edge once more.

He presses his face into the curve of her neck as she rolls her hips, responding to the way his fingers curl inside of her slick heat.

“It’s too much,” She moans as he works her over, fingers moving faster and faster until she comes so quickly against his hand.

He can barely catch his breath before she slips out of bed with more grace than he possesses. She doesn’t apologize for leaving him in this hard state. But she does watch him as she slips on her jeans and pulls her hair into a ponytail. He knows that she won't say goodbye, that she hopes he’ll drift into sleep before she even closes the door to his apartment.

He also knows that he shouldn't expect her to stay.

She never does.  

Knowing that, understanding her ways, doesn't meant it doesn't also lodge somewhere in the center of his chest. Just a twinge, as he waits and listens for the sound of his apartment door sliding open and then closed again. It's only then that he allows himself to move.

* * *

He hasn’t sailed a boat in years, but that doesn't stop him from skulking at the marina late one night, days after his latest encounter with Emma. Always leaving him feeling edgy and restless. He’d call it jealousy but it’s not even that anymore. It's just that, as he stares at the boats, rocking gently on the soft waves of the harbor, he feels more unsettled now that she's in his life, like he’s found more in her than she has found in him. That maybe she will never see anything else in him other than the surface.

The surface that he so desperately tries to convince the world is the real him. The irony is not lost on him.

He’s so lost in thought that he doesn’t hear the approach of another person until he’s startled by a low whistle coming from behind where he sits. Turning, he catches a glimpse of long hair and red streaks.

Ruby.

"You look rough, Killian," she says to him, kindly, as she makes her way to the bench where he sits, watching quietly.

She’s the only one who calls him that, the rest of the town preferring _Jimmy or Ian_ (or _hey, you)_. It feels good to hear his own name.

He shrugs, "haven't been sleeping much," he tells her.

It's easy to talk to her, it always was. Even with his memories of her long limbs wrapped around his waist, his hands pinning her wrists on the wall, above their bodies. There’s a calm familiarity he feels as she reaches out to press her hand to his, clasping them together, palm to palm.

"Work keeping you busy?" She asks and he knows there's no judgement in her asking, simple curiosity.

"Surprisingly no, love.”

He hasn't been busy these few weeks. Not since Emma. He suspects that Ruby is aware of this, but she always did try to sneak the truth out of him.

“I didn’t see you at the funeral,” Ruby continues, as if his world hasn’t been affected at all with her prying, and brings back the crushing reality that is the loss of their mutual friend.

He coughs as he attempts to piece together a response that doesn’t sound self-deprecating, but nothing seems to work, so he opts for silence and a pointed glance before resting back on the bench.

"I know Graham brought us together, Killian, but you know that I'm here for you. Right?" Her voice is pleading and he turns his head to meet her gaze.

It's full of warmth and it makes his throat tighten as he tries to catch a breath. True to form, she takes note and releases his hand. As she rises, she leans in to press a kiss to his cheek and her voice murmurs into his ear, “You're not alone."

As soon as she's gone, her warmth goes, the pleasant calm no longer lingering, and he's back to brooding about Emma, about the town.

Staring into the harbor, he's hit by another punch in his gut as he remains hypnotized by the small white sailboat, bobbing steadily, as it has the entire time he's been sitting here.

He hasn’t been sailing in years, but suddenly it’s the only thing that will do.

* * *

She handcuffs him to the cot in the cell that he’d been occupying the first time that she met him. Her face hasn't changed from the frozen, angry expression that it had held when she approached him at the harbor. He'd merely been on the boat. It hadn't moved position at all.

Though clearly he'd made enough noise on his adventure making his way _to_ the boat that he'd roused somebody. And that somebody had roused Storybrooke’s finest, one Ms. Emma Swan. Who had led him here, to this cell that he knows intimately by now.

He arches a brow at her and his voice dips low, “Kinky are we, Sheriff?”

He doesn’t really think she brought him here for a quick fuck, but it’s fun to see the way the flush rises in her cheeks as she glares back at him.

“I’m not fucking you in a cell. In the station. where I work,” her voice is stiff and tight, words punctuated by frustrated puffs of air.

He wonders if maybe he pushed it too far, this teasing her. But his wrists still smart from the force she used to cuff him and place him in the back of her squad car, even though he’d willingly walked off the boat. Even though he’d not even begun to sail it out of harbor. He’d merely been standing at the helm, running his hand along the smooth surface, trying to quell the feeling of _home_ that had surged the moment he’d stepped onto the gently swaying vessel.

“I rather wish you would, love. Though it might cost extra.”

She glares at him and he has the decency to adopt a sheepish expression that somewhat assuages her rage.

Or at least, that is what he thinks until she informs him that he’ll be spending the night in the cell and turns to stalk away, shutting herself in the corner office, away from his jokes and innuendos. Just plain away from _him._

* * *

He's been imprisoned in this cell more times than he'd care to admit. In fact, it is in all likelihood true that he's been in this cell more times than he can actually _count_. He has vague recollections of drunken nights during his teenage years, though the specifics still tend towards being elusive. He certainly can bring up images of Graham's face, staring at him through the bars, imploring him to just stop. Stop with the trouble and stop with the activities that neither of them wanted to detail.

He shifts uncomfortably as the musings being up images that he'd much rather forget, and he scans his surroundings for anything to take his mind off the pain that shoots through his chest. For all their stalemate over his life choices, Graham had been the closest thing to a friend he's ever had, since the loss of his brother and Milah all those years ago.

As far as jail cells go, he could certainly do _worse_. Indeed, he has no clue where that sentiment comes from, only that he can feel a strange sense of déjà vu in this cell. One that he's never quite felt during any of his others stays in this cell. But for all his history here, it's still uncomfortable, lying on the thin mattress, frayed at the edges and dingy, no matter how many times it's been disinfected.

Emma had come by not half an hour earlier to toss him a bottle of water from the mini fridge in the station.

"How long do you plan to keep me locked up?" He'd asked her.

To which she had replied, "it depends on whether the owner wants to press charges. Otherwise, there's probably some fine or another that I can throw at you."

"A sheriff who doesn't even know all the laws of her town yet? The shame."

But he had said it with a grin and is rewarded with a quick flash of her smile before she sneaks a glance at the security camera affixed to the ceiling of the station and she immediately cooled  

"The municipal codes here are...convoluted, let's say," she had explained, her voice low enough so it didn't carry. "This town doesn’t operate like any I’ve ever visited. Besides,” she shrugs, an uncomfortable lift of her right shoulder, “I'm still getting used to operating on this side of the law."

That, coupled with her stiff stance, the way she stands with her her hands on her hips, fingers white knocked from her own grip, he realizes that she's playing it cool for a reason. And suddenly his initial response feels petty, taunting her about fucking on the bed here in this cell, as if she's ever been anything but professional and impersonal with him outside his apartment. He's filled with a sense of dread, of shame. He _knows_ that she's fighting something larger here.

* * *

It's been hours and he has a perfect vantage point to study her from his cell. the glass walls of her office keep him from hearing the sounds from within, but they do allow him full view of how she concentrates as she types on the computer, that crease between her brows depending as she stares, intently, on whatever she's found.

She still hasn't said much to him since that last exchange and she gives a perfect appearance of being far too busy in her office, typing rapidly on her computer and taking breaks to roll her neck and crack her knuckles. She'd had some warmth in her eyes as she'd handed over the water and chips for a snack. It had been a brief, fleeting flicker across her features, but it had been there. It was enough, then, to calm whatever storm within that had been raging when she'd found him, that uneasiness in his gut trust made him taunt her, that made him want to see her lose that iron control, even if it's in anger towards him.

Emma frowns down towards her desk and then he watches as she raises her cell phone to her ear. She continues frowning during the conversation, her mouth barely moving in response to whoever it is on the other end of the line. After several moments of this, she places her phone down and he watches as she rubs the bridge of her nose, her fingers stroking, circling, until she's able to smooth her features into that careful blankness he's come to know well.

There’s a part of him that likes this, in a perverse way. He may be in jail,but then he's been in and out of this cell for so long it hardly registers as a concern, but he gets a glimpse into her life when she's not visiting him. It's fascinating to him, this contrast between who she is with him, and who she is with everybody else, with the public. How she can be so reckless, act with such abandon is his bed (on his couch, in his shower) (oh yes, he hasn't forgotten those moments with her facing the tiles, letting his hands roam her body, as he thrust into her from behind). How she can be that with him and this tightly wound person with the rest of the world.

Just who is the real Emma Swan he wonders. (And maybe people aren't any one thing.)

He craves more of those moments when all that's between them is reduced to the way he can make her flush and moan and writhe beneath him, above him, beside him. It's twisted, he fears, how much he can't get enough of her.

He startles at the sound of a door back ground closed and a heavy tread down the hallway. Emma's not surprised, though, so he gathers that it must have something to do with the phone call she received. And as a man enters the station, tall and dark and scruffy, he swallows a large pocket of air as he realizes that he may need to control these _feelings_ that seemed to have grown wildly out of control.

The other man spares him no attention on his way to Emma's office, his head only turning slightly as if to register the presence of another person. It's a complete dismissal and he tries not to let it smart, that lick of pain he feels. It's not much, he doesn't even know what this man means to Emma. He's a stranger, which has always been odd in their small town. As if there's never been another visitor before Emma - and now this guy.

He watches as the man leans arrogantly against the door frame as he speaks to Emma and he finds he doesn't like this air the stranger puts on. It feels disingenuous, and he can only hope that Emma sees it too. The stranger only stays for a few moments, enough time to put the frown back on Emma's lips, to increase the lines in the groove between her eyes.

But it’s enough time to give _him_ a sweeping once over as he exits the station, his brow arched and smirk on his lips like he _knows_ something that everybody else doesn't.

Just as he relaxes his pose, the other man turns around and makes his way back to cell. He stare at Ian for a few moments, eyes steady and unblinking. He gives a small nod as he leans closer to the bars and smirks, "Well this is...not surprising."

Killian's legs stretch out in front of his body and he casually leans back against the concrete wall, arms bent behind his head. He holds the stranger's gaze for a minute before he replies. He knows a power play when he sees one, knows the condensation laced through the few words spoken aloud.  

"I wasn't aware we were acquainted. Mate," he says through a stiff, menacing smile.

"Oh, we aren't." There's a pause as he tilts his head and reconsiders. "Well. Not exactly."

"So you've heard of me?" He asks as is he's somebody important. And then he's quiet, letting the other man study him.

When it becomes clear that Killian will offer no additional information, the stranger leaves with a parting shot, gesturing in his general direction. "Enjoy it while you can."

He has no clue what that's supposed to mean, but he's perceptive enough to detect the vague threat implied in the words. He hardens his voice, "Don't let my surroundings fool you. People rarely threaten me and get away with it."

The other man barks out a laugh and mutters something that Ian can't catch over the sound of Emma leaving her office and saying, "August, stop intimidating my perp. That's my job."

(August, he files the name away for later as he leaves, boots as heavy, stride confident, as when he arrived.)

"An admirerer?" He asks Emma as she approaches his cell.

"No," she replies with a sigh. "He's the one who initially hired me for the job that brought me to town. .And now he’s up to something else and I'm gonna figure out what it is."

He hums in response and her head tilts as she watches him. She had been standing but she takes a moment to lean back against the corner of the unused desk behind her and to cross her arms in front of her chest.

"More jealousy?" She asks him and her tone is filled with that same disdain she'd used on him a few nights ago as she'd informed him what his rights _weren't_.

He shrugs because he doesn't want to lie, but he also doesn't want to tell the truth. Not yet, at least, when he knows she’s in no position to hear it. It’s not even that he’s jealous of the other man. Maybe he should be, with their similar look and shared swagger. He can’t even find it in himself to be offended by the arrogant disdain that the man threw in his direction. Killian likely would have done the same at one point in time.

No, jealousy is a surface emotion. It’s petty and it’s a flash in the pan, compared to what he feels when he looks at her. He’s established already that he has no idea _what_ he feels, other than that it’s caught somewhere in between his heart and his gut. 

When it’s clear that he's never going to respond to her accusation, she refocuses. "So. The boat?”

“Right. That.” He scratches absently at the back of his ear, “I find it hard to explain.”

By the way she rolls her eyes he knows that's not going to be enough, even though it's the truth.  

Her voice isn't as hard as she tries to make it when she commands him, “Try.”

* * *

Emma watches him as he tries to formulate a response.

That first night with him, it had been all impersonal and making her body feel something, anything, after the guilt of getting Graham killed. That second night, the burning jealousy she’d felt wafting off him, had made her heartbeat kick just as much as it had made her livid - how dare he try to turn this into something they are not. How dare he try to bring her _emotions_ into their arrangement.

She’d tried not to think of him using any name at all, but that all changed tonight and she’d circled his wrists with the metal cuffs, and she’d called him Killian while she’d hauled him into the back of her squad car.  

Everything surrounding this evening has turned into a curious... _situation_. She has no clue who actually alerted her to his presence at the harbor. The call was anonymous and try as she might, she cannot find any records of this boat existing. The online records show no assigned slip at the harbor, no harbormaster assigned to keep track, even. Which makes no sense at all, that a coastal town would be without one.  

So here they are. No official records, no owner to press charges.

She tries not to glance at the security camera for a second time, because there’s no telling where that feed is sent. Sure, she has access to the tapes. Not even VHS, but Betamax tapes.

And maybe she's paranoid, by it somehow feels like something Cora might do - tap into the feed to spy on her, to try and find something to discredit her election, her position in the town. She'd already tried infiltration and discreditation through Sidney Glass and the local newspaper. Nothing seems beneath her, not to maintain the power she has over the inhabitants of this town.

Emma's never found herself in this position before with this man who sits insolently across from her in his cell. For all that she's paid him to help her feel, help her forget everything, he's continued to surprise her at every turn. He's surprised her with his jealousy - not entirely unfounded given why she came to him in the first place. He's surprised her with his understanding of her - without her saying. the last time they were together he took her gently and he soothed her with hands and lips when where words would have only failed. He understands her somehow and it scares her. It scares her how many risks he appears willing to take - and for what? What was his aim, his purpose in being so reckless?

Now he surprises her with his hesitation, a nervousness to his air that she's never seen before. He's attempting to formulate a response, but what comes out is, "It was as if I was compelled, love. That's the only explanation you'll get."

She sighs as she shifts her legs to stand up again and pace the room. After a few moments she whirls around and stalks right up to the cell door, gripping the metal bars as she whispers.

"There are a lot of secrets in this town,"

The way his eyes narrow, unfolding his arms and placing them on either side if his body, indicates that he's taking her just enough more seriously.

"Aye.”

She’s nervous about the next part. Not only because of the risk she takes voicing any opinions whatsoever, but because she’s already asked him for help once. So, she eases into it with, “Secrets that I can't access.”

His reply is so immediate, so clear, that she’s thrown off balance. Again. “Secrets that I can help you access, that I’ve _been_ helping you access,” he offers with steady eyes.

He pauses at that. He'd been fidgeting at the beginning of their conversations, shifting his fingers, gripping the edge of the cot, crossing and uncrossing, and recrossing his ankles.

But now he's still and she still hasn’t offered more to their exchange.

“Emma, tell me what you need. Whatever it takes to get you to believe in me. That despite my foolish actions tonight, I’m on your side. Tell me and I will do it.”

She gulps. Prepares herself for an admission that maybe he’ll find small. But it’s not.

“I _want_ to believe you.”

“But you can't? Or won't?”

He tilts his head as she formulates her reply.

“Maybe won't. Maybe a little of both.” Then she sighs, “Look. Honestly, I can't keep you here much longer. It's the strangest thing, but I couldn't find evidence of any owner in the city records. This boat appears to have come from nowhere and been abandoned here. So I think the best I could do is slap your wrist with a fine.”

She’s not going to do it though, and he reads between the lines of what she’s trying to say. He’s good like that, she’s coming to realize, good at figuring out what she means without her having to actually _say_ it. It’s disconcerting, to say the least. But she’s coming to think that it also has it’s benefits.

For somebody so practiced at lying to herself and lying to others about what she really feels. It’s nice to find somebody who might actually be able to tell the difference.

He smiles at her, a full-on wide grin, “But you're not going to do that? What about Cora?"

"I'll deal with it. I'm already well into the muck with her. One more thing isn't going to change that much."

She unlocks the door and lets him leave with one last parting gift, "Just try to refrain from getting yourself arrested again this week?"

He gives her a funny look, and then, "As you wish," making her roll her eyes.

* * *

She doesn’t set up an appointment with him again.

Instead she stares at his number, still carrying around that piece of paper, ink faded and crumpled from use.

She stares until she can’t handle looking at it anymore, and asks herself what’s she’s really doing.

* * *

It's two weeks later when she finds herself wading through a small swamp on the edge of the north woods. August has been quiet this week, but she knows that he's still in town. Perhaps it's her senses in overdrive after her tension with Mary Margaret released. But she can't get started thinking about her roommate and her secrets tonight. Not when a case of files turned up in the trunk of her car and she can't help but feel like August had something to do with it.

She doesn't believe in coincidences.

She heard from Leroy about some lights he saw out in the woods the night before. She knows better than to take the word of a man so often in the drunk tank too seriously, but it's her first lead, so she's taken it. She packed her squad car at the edge of the forest and she pulled on her hiking boots, and now she's slogging through the sludge.

(She'd mapped the area before she took this trip, but the sun is starting to go down now and she's feeling discouraged.)

According to city records, there's no structure built in this area, so if there is some source of light out here, it'd have to be from somebody setting up camp.

She could use a partner with this task. And with that thought, she tries not to let exhaustion give way to tears as she rubs absently at the worn leather at her wrist. She shakes her head and blinks her eyes rapidly. She’s tired of feeling that overwhelming pressure to do something to make things right.

She’s here to do a job, and she can’t let pride get in the way. Pulling out her cell phone she dials a certain phone number (that she may or may not have memorized this week) before she can talk herself out of it. She's not sure why she calls him, but he comes when she does, finding her at the edge of the woods, not far from where her police cruiser is parked, but just far enough away that she cannot be seen from the road.

"Is our esteemed sheriff lost? Well I never," he jokes when he finds her, and she's surprised by his attire. He's forgone the leather jacket and tight jeans for something a bit warmer, softer, and worn hiking boots.

It makes her want to ruffle his hair, messy him up some more, to completely change him from the slick, perfect, brooding image in black that she usually gets. She resists the urge, of course, and seriously questions her impulses. At least she still has her control. Instead of giving in, she rolls her eyes at him. Judging by his reaction, though, he's learning to tell the difference between when she's actually annoyed and when it's because she's trying not to smile at him. Besides, it's not like he's entirely off base. He's probably spent more time in these dense woods that she has.

And then, her mouth - her stupid traitorous mouth - runs away with her thoughts. “Not lost”, she sighs, “just wanted some company.”

She's shocked at the honesty that escapes. She hadn't been planning on telling him that, but there's something about this relaxed version of him that makes her feel calmer, the warmth of his unlined eyes and the wool scarf around his neck that makes her feel less like he is what he is and they are what they are.

“I thought you only owned clothes in black and leather,” she jokes, to get back some of her equilibrium that she’s lost by admitting this.

“I may prefer the other look, love,” he grins, “But even I have a sense of propriety and occasion.”

She'll never deny that she finds his other look attractive, though she's never been one for the guy liner before. But this look? This look makes her feel like he takes her seriously which is more than she can say for a lot of people in this town right now.

* * *

It's dark by the time they give up their search, but Emma doesn't want to leave yet. The night air is crisp but not cold, and somehow, on their trek back to the edge of the woods, they began to walk closer together, her arm brushing against his, her heart skipping a beat whenever he turns to flash a small grin at her.

It feels like a date and she finds it all very confusing because of who she is, of who he is. _There she goes forgetting again._ And yet here they are, on a moonlit walk in the woods, the soft light of her flashlight illuminating the path.

He must be thinking the same thing, because she hasn't even begun to _attempt_ vocalizing her thoughts when she suddenly finds herself pressed against a tree, his hand cradling the back of her neck. He doesn't kiss her on the mouth immediately, even though his bright burning eyes are focused on her lips for several quiet moments, the only sounds around them the whistle of the air rustling through leaves and their heavy breathing. Instead, he presses his lips to her neck, her jaw, her ear, slowly making his way to hover over her lips.

His hips press into hers and she can feel that he wants her, and she can feel the corresponding desire rush to that point of friction between them. She decides to screw waiting and makes the next move, leaning in to capture his lower lip with her teeth, pulling gently before releasing him and leaning her head back against the bark, against his hand, looking up to meet his eyes.

Saying _yes_.

This time, when he kisses her, it feels different somehow. Softer, with the gentle slide of his open mouth against hers, the soft tasting of lips, not the clash of tongues and teeth. It's a lazy exploration, as if they have all the time in the world.

Again, as if they are more than what they are.

He deepens the kiss with a moan, his fingers curling into the hair at her neck, tugging at the strands. Her hands find his back, sliding under his jacket but over the soft flannel of his shirt. And she can't keep them still as they slip lazily from kiss to kiss. Stopping for air and starting again seamlessly. She hasn't just kissed like this in forever. If ever at all. Even though they've slept together before - fucked really, to be honest about it - and she knows that _that_ is eventually where this is headed, she's in no rush. She wants to explore him as much as he's exploring her.

And that makes her heart beat faster and faster, fear that this is going to turn into something she cannot handle.

But she cannot stop herself from doing it anyway.

She finds a spot on his neck, right below his ear, that makes him groan and thrust his hips harder against hers when she scrapes it with her teeth, not biting, not even quite nipping, but tracing his pulse with her mouth. It's a low, deep rumble of leisure and she can feel it vibrate through her body too.

She tries it again, harder and the rumble turns into a growl as he says her name, draws it out to slowly, a contrast to his quick movements as she breaks away from her and drops his jacket to the ground. They stumble their way to the ground, her legs straddling his hips.

His hands grip tightly as she rolls her hips - once, twice - the zipper of his jeans riding along her center, making her want to throw her head back and grind her hips into him until she comes. She pulls back though, because she doesn’t actually want the quick ride this time, for all that they are outside, the trees and the stars the only witness.

He has other ideas though, given the way his hands grip her hips to keep her in place, and the way his hips pump up into her, as he whispers, “Imagine this is my cock, fucking up into you, skin to skin.”

She's breathless when she replies, “Well, what's stopping you?”

She curses the jeans that she’s wearing, but she doesn’t hesitate to unlace her boots and slide them down her legs. a shiver runs through her body but it's not just the night air, it's the feel of him, the rough clothes against her smooth skin, the heat the fills the air between their bodies. Though he must assume its the chill, because he quickly pulls her towards him, and they fall back into the soft, warm, flannel lining of the makeshift blanket.

As she gestures to her bare legs, as if to say, _see, no problems here_ , he pauses. Emma raises her eyes to meet his and she sees confusion in his features, a little hesitance behind his eyes, an aroused flush in his cheeks, the heavy rise and fall of his chest.

But whatever is holding him back quickly disappears as she presses her hips against him slowly, deliberately, and feels the way he hardens even more beneath her. His lips reach up and take hers, sucking on her bottom lip, his tongue tracing until the kiss becomes like earlier, hot, open mouths fused together.

An orgasm takes her by surprise, a quick build and release that sends a rush of adrenaline through her body and she tears her lips away him just to moan his name, to trace a hot path along his jawline while her fingers reach for the button of his jeans.

“Please tell me you have a condom somewhere on you,” she mutters as her tongue flicks out to taste his skin, right at the pulse point in his neck, as her hand reaches into his jeans, his briefs, and finds his erection - hot and smooth.

She’s chasing another orgasm but she wants it with him inside of her, with his hands in her hair and his lips on hers. It doesn’t escape her that this was unplanned, that they don’t have a prearranged agreement here, that if he wanted he could put a halt to this he could. Just one word and she’d stop, one reminder that their arrangement makes all _this_ conditional on payment.

But he doesn’t.

He groans a reply that she assumes is an affirmative, as he shifts his torso just enough to reach into his jacket pocket. Neither of them rush to put it on him, though. He places it next to their bodies and his hands make their way to the soft cotton of her panties. He slides his hands beneath the fabric, gripping her ass, sliding lower, lower, lower, until his fingers slide against her from behind. She’s riding him again and she can feel his erection rubbing her, his fingers sliding along her slick folds, and she can feel that desire unfurling, building in her, again.

Taking her higher and higher until she comes again.

She feels like she’s floating, the steady hum of desire running through her veins, the way her muscles relax against him. She sees his lips moving, but she’s still so high that he has to repeat his question for her, “Do you have a third in you, love?”

There’s still a fluttering, steady pulse between her legs, the sparks of desire subsiding but not yet gone. She wonders what he would say if she answered no, if she said thanks, but I’m done. Her hand had been wrapped around his cock, she knows how ready he is, how much he wants her to sink onto him, to take him with her.

And yet he still stops. Asks permission.

She answers him with actions, opening the square packet, rolling the condom down, grabbing his hands and pressing them above his head, their fingers linked as she slides down. His head rolls back, eyes closed, when she settles completely. She rocks her hips softly at first, easing into a steady thrust.

She’s far gone, past the first coils of desire into the burning need between her legs, and she releases his hands because she wants him free, free to touch her while he takes them higher, and higher. His fingers find her hair - and he grips the way he knows that she likes it. Tight, at the base of her skull, pulling her until his lips find her neck. That soft spot behind her ear that sends shivers down her arms.

It anchors her body, that and her grip on his shoulders, allows him to control how hard, how fast he goes. And she knows it’s not long now, with how fast his hips are moving and she presses down, just right, hard enough that she’s coming again so quickly and then so is he, and he rides it out from beneath her until she collapses on his chest.

* * *

She doesn’t contact him again for a month.

It would have bothered him more, this complete retreat. It would have, except that he'd seen the expression on her face when they'd last said goodbye, her hair a mess from his fingers, from the ground, and beyond her flushed cheeks, there was something akin to regret in her eyes. And he’d sensed that the regret was not over what they had just done. No, she’d been sated and well-fucked. She’d murmured delirious words of pleasure that he’s sure she does not even recall. No, he’d sensed her regret not over what they'd done, but over what brought them together to begin with.

* * *

She’s more nervous standing in front of his door tonight than she ever has been.

It’s impossible to deny that the last time she saw him was unplanned. Unplanned, spontaneous, a shock to her system. And hot. So very hot that she can’t look at her hiking boots, tossed into the corner of her room at the loft haphazardly, without a blush spreading across her body.

When she’d reached her apartment afterwards, she found herself closing the door behind her and just falling back into it, her heart still racing and her fingers smoothing her still-tangled hair. She would have stayed there, too, sated, confused. Her heart filling with an emotion that she’d rather not name. She would have, until she heard a quiet polite cough and she’d jumped out of her skin, opening her eyes to find Mary Margaret on the couch with a hot cup of tea and wry smile.

“I guess I’m not the only one with secrets,” she had said and all Emma could do was shrug.

It’s also impossible to deny that she’s been avoiding him ever since.

She told herself that it was about the box of files left to her by August, never found in town again. The box of files that - with the assistance of the feds - will be on their way to building a case against Cora and Gold.

She told herself that because she’d opened the envelope in her bag (never mind that she still hasn’t read the words) that maybe she didn’t need him anymore.  

But that’s all a lie, and she feels is through to her core the moment that he opens his door to her, a smile playing at his lips despite her long silence.

She wants to ask him if he’s been busy while she was away from him, but doesn’t want to know the answer. She’d never had the right to ask him for more than he’d given. Maybe one day they’ll be able to make promises to each other.

She’s finally learning how to hope for that.

“Do your presence here have anything to do with the black sedans that have made their way to our town?”

She smiles, a full grin. “I’d forgotten how observant you are.”

He takes a step towards her, not crowding her but enough that she sinks her back into his door. They’d been in a similar position not so long ago, a time filled with jealousy (his) and emotional walls (hers). It feels infinitely better now, almost flirting as he moves so gently, until his front is pressed against her.

“I keep my ear to the ground, still,” he murmurs in her ear as one hand traces up her arm until he grips the lapel of her jacket.

“It’s one of your most useful qualities,” she admits, heart racing as his other hand begins to trace patterns along her hips. “I wish I could use you in my office, now that Cora won’t be a problem.”

He hums a reply, and she feels it vibrating through her body. Lips hovering over hers, he’s losing track of their conversation and - as much as she wants to lose herself in it - she came here for a purpose.

She teases them both with a brief brush of lips before twisting out of his grip and under his arms.

He huffs, a small pout to his lips, but he follows her to the couch anyway.

“I did hear that the town is looking for a new harbormaster,” she says casually, slipping out of her jacket, pulling some paper out of her pocket.

She slides the application towards him, the opened, but unread letter, falling to the floor as she does so.

Her heart races as he picks it up, noting it’s jagged edges.

“Did you?” He asks.

She shakes her head, looking away briefly, before turning to face him.

“What do you say we make a deal,” she propositions.

“I’m listening.”

And he is, with those blue eyes calm and intent as he watches her shaking hands.

“I’ll read the letter if you consider the job.”

She’s not prepared for how quickly he moves and she’s shocked when his hands find her cheeks and he pulls her in for a smacking kiss. It’s different than any they’d shared before, loud and boisterous, and lacking all finesse.

He grabs the application for the job and and places the papers on his coffee table. “I’ll fill this out tonight. Though I’ll tell you, I dropped out of school so long ago, I may need some additional qualifications.”

“I can work with that.”

Her hands play with the envelope as she curls her body into his. “You never asked me what this is.”

She can feel the kiss that he places at the back of her head, his arms tightening around her. “I figured you’d tell me when it was time.”

She turns to catch his eye and leans in for another soft kiss.

“It’s time.”

Then she leans back further into the warmth of his body and begins to read.

_Dear Emma,_

_I’m your son, Henry._


End file.
